27 September 2010

If my plant can grow in here, I can grow in here.

That’s how I feel about my bird of paradise, succulent garden, three orchids, money tree, and hangy plant. If there is enough light, water, warmth and care for a little chlorophyll to multiply, then I can grow here, too. My plants grow to remind me they’re happy. They don’t talk much. They just soak in the goodness around them and get taller and greener, edging slowly toward the light. They don’t need much. No pooper scooper, no fish food, no 6am walks or piddle pads. Just a little water and sun.

What I love most about house plants is that they’re alive. Can they feel? How are they born, and how do they die? It’s one thing to buy pre-cut flowers at the market, but weening an orchid to bloom is a pride-worthy feat. Outfit your home with plants. That lil morsel of life on your windowsill, kitchen table, desk or living room floor is what every City Dweller needs to grow.

19 September 2010

What does it mean to believe? I tried to articulate a philosophical thought on the matter inside a Haight Street bar this weekend. While a close friend smoked outside, I sat with her husband discussing how most foreign countries have gruesome warning labels on every cigarette pack. Aborted fetuses, throat tumors, rotting teeth, and charred lungs are overlooked as the Spanish and Thai chain smoke at their kitchen tables.

Though we are taught that cigarettes kill, it doesn’t stop most of my friends from enjoying them often. And this is not meant to be a judgement against indulgence; I too have had my affair with tobacco. It’s a question of belief. I asked my friend: if you truly believed, with utter conviction, that smoking would shorten a life, would you smoke? Would you condone your wife smoking? I doubt it. You can say the same thing about drinking beer, using deodorant, taking aspirin, and holding a cell phone to your head. All these things are “proven” to cause cancer and kill us in some way or another. Belief really means fear in these cases. But anyone who has the slightest zest for adventure and pleasure will put fear out of their minds in the name of a good time.

The train of thought inevitably brings me to religion. Growing up, I was taught that premarital sex, drinking, taking drugs, and all things that comprise FUN are in fact SINS. Sins make you go to hell. Yet I broke every rule in the book before graduating high school and it was the best thing that ever happend to me. I once shared my guilt with a semi-spiritual, semi-premiscuous high school acquaintance. She was the one who pointed out that if I did wholeheartedly believe that God could see my every action, I wouldn't have dared cross him. That leggy teenybopper enlightened me; I didn't believe in God, at least in the Protestant form that he was presented to me. Fear of consequence goes out the window when boys and Smirnoff Ice come into the picture.

So my conclusion is this: few people genuinely believe that premarital sex leads to hell or smoking kills. Though one may process ideological teachings and scientific fact as truth, to sincerely believe everything you know would turn life into a tea party with grandma (and three teacup poodles).

And when it comes down to it, a 20-something brown eyed girl just gets that much cuter with a cigarette in her hand.

10 September 2010

26 July 2010

To squelch any rumors whispering through Facebook, text message, and dinner parties: this isn’t my mid-life crisis. Nor am I moving to South America, turning lesbian, or announcing a divorce. My recent physical transformations came with little warning and all at once; but aren’t all the biggest risks taken spontaneously? Within two days of feeling dangerous, I sat down for my first boycut and laid on the table for my first tattoo. I put myself in the hands to two amazing San Francisco artists to do what they do best. Resigning myself to their talents, I closed my eyes.

Thanks to the genius of my dear friend and creative enigma, Kelle Schlax, my chesnut boy-short locks are chopped to perfection. The joys of short hair warrant a post of their own, so let's talk about the more permanent transformation: my first time under the needle at the hand of Mr. Gordon Combs, tattooist extraordinaire.

Like losing your virginity, no description or study can prepare you for the feeling of your first tattoo. Friends had expressed the pain in ratings of bee stings and period cramps, but the actual sensation of the first line was unlike anything in my previous experience. Initially, the pain was less than I expected. The basic outline was tickling, burning, and slightly pleasurable. As the three hour session progressed, the discomfort increased exponentially. During certain intense moments of digging over raw skin, it crossed my mind that I might not make it for another 10 minutes. Then Gordon's hands would move to another part of my arm or he would spray the fresh wound with cooling alcohol (a godsend!) and I would feel ready to go on.

Sitting up to drink iced tea each time Gordon changed his gloves helped to break up the intense concentration of shooting nerves. On the other hand, after a good 5 or 10 minutes of constant scraping, your mind blurs out the pain and glorious numbness comes over your body. Meditating on the needle and breathing with its rhythmic movements also helped to distract from the most tormenting stabs, turning excruciating pain into near euphoria. It was a newfound test of the mind’s power, and one that leaves you feeling incredible control over your own self.

As the curvy, elegant quill emerged on my arm, the pain became obsolete. The ceremonial process of laying down for sacrifice, cleaning the gun, dipping ink, stretching skin, holding, stabbing, vibrating, wiping- the changing of gloves- the entire ritual felt like a rite of passage. I hadn’t anticipated the intimacy of this experience. We sat face to face for three solid hours as Gordon etched his marking into my skin. Every once in awhile my best friend, Jamie, would touch my hair with her cool hands- so soothing to my throbbing head!

All my fears fell away when I admired the beautiful form on my arm. The elegant line, form, and color are a small present looking back up at me. It already feels so natural to be part of my body, like the homecoming of a dearly missed friend. I feel energized by her return.

Thanks to Jamie Foster for photographing the session while feeding me peanuts and ice tea.

09 June 2010

It was a conversation of mentor to pupil, sorcerer to apprentice. Years of wisdom were passed down and guarded secrets were shared. How does one succeed freelancing in the creative industry? Only the fox knows.

Lesson #1 is a strategy of the psyche. He calls it the Rowing Theory. So there's a rowing team of six dudes and they contract you to design their logo. You draft up a bitchin design and send it to the first team member. He wants to take credit for making this project happen so he makes an edit and sends it back without showing his whole team. Artist amends the logo and delivers the final product. Now the remaining 5 rowers all take their stab at the logo, attemping to make it their own by critiquing one aspect. Creative gets back the logo with notes from each team member, all asking for conflicting edits. Sick of being stuck in the middle of everyone's ego trip, he enacts a new law: with every design he hands over to a client, one major flaw is left blatanly staring them in the face. Client gets one round of free edits so he can feel masterful by picking out the blemish, demanding revisions, and taking ownership over the project. Fox snickers and retouches the design, ships it off, washes his hands and collects his check. Works every time.

Lesons #2-10 are equally cunning. They are being safely guarded in the depths of a rocky cave accessible only by a water-filled tunnel. It leads to a sacred pond where light emits, a light worth dying for. Only one man knows how to reach it.

06 June 2010

The bubble wizard worked his magic and all the town stopped to watch. He

wielded rainbows of wonky melting glass that floated high, bursting into rain.

Two small boys staked themselves in front of the wizard. They taunted,

"You can't get passed me!" and burst each bubble before it could fly.

Their sinister laughter and shrill cries drove me to abandon all hope

of catching more whimsical blubbering orbs float through the sky.

The boys finally tired themselves and sauntered home, soaking wet from the bubble guts.

The wizard approached me and shared his homemade bubble concoction's secret

ingredient. "I don't tell the parents, but mostly it's J-Lube. You know, for fisting."

06 June 2010

Scenario: boyfriend is watching a YouTube skate video. He screams.

"What happened?"

"Jordan did Rick Howard's trick!"

"Which one?"

"Frontside 180 fakey 5-0 frontside flip out!"

"Oh."

09 May 2010

09 May 2010

There isn't much that I feel I need

A solid soul and the blood I bleed

But with a little girl, and by my spouse,

I only want a proper house

I don't care for fancy things

Or to take part in the freshest wave,

But to provide for mine who ask

I will, with heart, on my father's grave

On my father's grave

On your father's grave

I don't mean to seem like I

Care about material things,

Like a social status, I just want

Four walls and adobe slats

For my girls